Linda Fritz pounded her ear the way a swimmer does to get the water out. “Did I hear what I thought I heard?”
Zack frowned. “I told you Joanne and I were seeing each other.”
Linda blew her nose. “I thought it was like all your other relationships. Slam bam, thank you, ma’am. You’re always a pal afterwards, but love … hey, who knew?”
Zack grinned. “I wasn’t counting on it either, Linda, but I got lucky. Take care of that cough.”
My first report on the Sam Parker trial was complicated by a wind that was either keening into my lapel mike or lashing my hair in front of my eyes. But I stuck with it, and my report live to the East Coast was on time and on target. We all agreed the spot had gone well and as I removed my microphone, I felt a wash of relief. One show down, probably twenty more to go.
On the way to my car, I spotted Ethan Thorpe. He was walking through the parking lot behind the courthouse. He was wearing a full-length black coat with the collar pulled up against the weather – a figure of Gothic romance. I called to him. “Hey, Ethan.”
He whirled around and recognized me. “Ms. Kilbourn – hi!” Turtle style, he pulled his head even farther down inside his collar.
“What are you doing down here?” I said.
“A project,” he mumbled. “For social studies.”
“Well, court’s over for the day.” I said, “Can I give you a lift home?”
“No!” His voice cracked with adolescence and emotion. Clearly, he didn’t want me invading his private space. He tried to smooth the rough edge of his response. “Thanks, but it’s okay. I like walking in storms.” Then he turned on his heel and, in an exit worthy of Soul-fire, vanished in the swirl of snow.
Taylor and I watched my debut on
“You’ll have to talk to Zack. The scarf belongs to him.”
Taylor’s smile started small and grew. “Zack would give you anything you asked for.”
“Of course, he would,” I said. “He’s passion’s slave.”
Taylor’s eyes widened.
“I picked up the phrase
“What was he doing there?”
“He said something about a social studies project. Anyway, I offered him a ride home, but he wanted to walk in the blizzard.”
“He doesn’t like being around other people much,” Taylor said.
“How come?”
“Because he thinks other people don’t like him.”
“Is he right?”
By a stratagem I had come to recognize well from my years as a mother, Taylor deflected the question by changing the subject. Luckily for her, she had help. Just as the silence between us was growing awkward, my segment on
We both watched critically. When it was over, Taylor flopped back on the couch. “Too bad about your hair weirding out in the wind like that, but what you said sounded good.”
“Thanks,” I said. I stood up. “And since I get to perform again tomorrow, I’d better do my homework.”
Taylor ran her fingers through her choppy bob. “Maybe get some hairspray too,” she said thoughtfully. “Gracie says Curlz Extra will keep your hair glued down in a monsoon.”
Like many best-laid plans, my plan to make a quick run to Shoppers Drug Mart for industrial-strength hairspray and curl up with the background information Rapti had sent went awry. As I was rinsing our dishes, the phone rang.
It was Angus telling me he and Leah had a blast in New York, and that he was available 24/7 if I needed help with any legal points. I thanked him, told him I loved him, and went back to the dishes. I’d just put the last plate in the dishwasher when Howard Dowhanuik called.
His voice was thick. “I fucked up,” he said.
“Stop the presses,” I said.
“Okay,” he said. “I deserved that.” His voice was muffled and barely comprehensible.
“Howard, hang up and call me again. There’s something the matter with this line.”
“It isn’t the line. It’s the towel I’m holding up to my goddamn face. I fell and cut myself.”
“How bad is it?”
“Bad enough. I’m bleeding like a stuck pig. I need to see a doctor.”
“Keep the pressure on the wound,” I said. “I’ll be right there.”
Like a gracious host, Howard was at the door waiting. A bloody bath towel was pressed to the left side of his
